


The Adventure of the Fauversham Farm

by BaronVonBork



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 16:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonBork/pseuds/BaronVonBork
Summary: Sherlock Holmes solves a fairy tale murder.





	The Adventure of the Fauversham Farm

It was a mid-summer morning in Baker Street and I had just finished my toast and eggs when the boy in buttons rushed in with a telegram. Holmes was lying on the sofa on the opposite side of the room. Without opening his eyes his waved an imperious hand towards me and I was given the missive.  
"Read it to me, would you Watson?" he droned as the boy rushed away again.  
I did so. "Holmes. Bad business down at Fauversham. Join me as soon as able. Lestrade."  
So it was that we found ourselves on the next train to Hampshire. We were met at the village station by the inspector who at once burst into a description of the situation.  
"It' a bad business, Mr Holmes! A bad business."  
"So you said in your telegram. I trust there is more to go on than that?"  
"Of course. Three missing. Two homes vanished. One body recovered. I say "body" but "remains" would be more apt. I shall explain the full circumstances on the way to the scene."  
We boarded a dog cart, and while a constable drove us Lestrade filled us in.  
"We are headed to Fauversham Farm, the rural estate of Mr Howard Plank. On one of his more remote fields he had three tenants. Brothers. They had each built their own homes fairly near to each other. When rent day came around he visited with the intention of collecting and found two of the houses were gone, as were all three tenants. He called in the local constable; PC Brazier, who is driving us now. On examining the remaining house he made a grisly discovery; in a cauldron above the fireplace were the bones of one of the brothers. At once he realised he was in deep water and called in Scotland Yard. I was sent down yesterday but can make nothing of it. That is why I asked for your help."  
"What makes you so sure the remains are those of one of the brothers?" asked Holmes.  
"Ah! Perhaps I should describe the tenants to make that much clear. The brothers, naturally, share a surname: "Littlepig". They are named First, Second and Third. The surname is rather apt, because they are actually..."  
"Anthropomorphised pigs?" interrupted Holmes.  
"Quite. And the remains in the cauldron were clearly those of an anthropomorphised animal. So you see, they must be the remains of one of the Littlepigs."  
I must have appeared shocked for Holmes placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder and calmly explained "You see, Watson, we are in a poorly written story by Paul Thomas Miller. He clearly thought this strange mash-up would be a good idea. He often thinks such things. Fortunately, he doesn't usually follow them through."  
At once I felt placated, did my best to rebuild the fourth wall and we carried on as if nothing had happened.

Lestrade took us to the sites of the first two houses. Nothing remained. It was as if the Earth had opening up and swallowed them whole. All Holmes could find was some flotsam of the sort one would expect to find on a farm; feed for animals and sticks for fuel.  
We arrived at the remaining dwelling and Holmes set to work examining its exterior. He appeared to gather much from it as he crawled about picking up stray pieces of straw and old twigs. For myself, I could tell nothing other than it was a sturdy brick building of which any porcine builder would be proud.  
"Are we able to see the remains?" Holmes asked.  
"Certainly. We left them where they were found." said Lestrade, ushering us into the small house.  
The bones were certainly animal. They were left higgledy-piggledy in the bottom of the cauldron. Here and there flesh stuck to them. Holmes probed them, and the small puddle at the bottom of the pot.  
"This body has been cooked!" he ejaculated.  
Then, as he pointed out the teeth marks in the meat and the stock in the bottom of the cauldron it became all too obvious that the victim had been eaten.

Lestrade was the first to vocalise our thoughts: "With this discovery, you have made it all clear! The brothers must have fallen out. Probably over money or who gets to go "wee wee wee" all the way home. A fight ensued in which two of the pigs lost their homes and lives. To destroy the evidence, Third Littlepig ate his brothers."  
"An interesting theory," Holmes remarked. "But how do you explain the disappearance of Third Littlepig?"  
For a moment Lestrade seemed stumped, but he quickly suggested "He was driven mad with grief or guilt and fled the scene. By now he has probably been found raving with hysteria and is locked away anonymously in some local asylum. Tracking him should present no great difficulty. I am sorry to have brought you all the way down for such a trifle, Holmes."  
"We shall see." he replied with ominous eye-brow waggling. "I have one or two further enquiries to make. Shall we meet at the local tavern for dinner?"  
This agreed Holmes and I set off on foot for the estate's manor house.

After knocking on the door of the house we were greeted by Howard Plank himself who ushered us into his drawing room.  
"It's terrible news!" he moaned. "The Littlepigs were all such good tenants. Third especially, was a diligent chap. And he generally kept his brothers on the straight and narrow."  
"Would I be right in surmising," asked Holmes "that not all the houses were as sturdily built as Third Littlepig's?"  
"Quite so!" chuckled Plank. "I'm afraid neither First nor Second were as hard working as their brother. First built his of straw and Second built his out of sticks. You can imagine how they looked!"  
"One more question, Mr Plank. Do you have any wolf problems around here?"  
"Why, yes, one has been sighted recently. Which is strange, as they went extinct in England in the sixteenth century. Mind you, this one is said to be..."  
"An anthropomorphised wolf." finished Holmes. "Thank you, Mr Plank, you have been most helpful. Come Watson, I believe I have a good chance of tracking down the elusive Third Littlepig!"

I was left at the village tavern while Holmes went off on a secret errand. It was a beautiful summer evening when he returned and Lestrade arrived soon after.  
"Well Holmes?" he enquired. "Have you made anything of it?"  
"I have made a good deal!" he replied as our dinner was served. "I took the liberty of ordering for all of us, by the way."  
"Never mind the food," Lestrade grumbled, tucking in, "what about the case!"  
"Very well. You were in error from the first, Lestrade. The bones were not those of a pig, anthropomorphised or otherwise. While superficially similar, they were in fact the bones of an anthropomorphised wolf."  
"A wolf!" Lestrade protested "But they have been extinct in England since..."  
"Yes, the sixteenth century. However, a certain Mr Bigbad Woolf arrived in this country from America just two months ago. Seeking the natural prey of the anthropomorphised wolf, he soon found himself in Fauversham on the trail of anthropomorphised pigs - the 

Littlepig brothers. Once located, it would be simple to devour First and Second. All he needed to do was use his lupine ability to huff, puff and blow their houses down before he gobbled them up whole."  
"So they were all three eaten by Bigbad Woolf!" Lestrade interrupted.  
"Not all. No. Third had sensibly built his house of brick. No amount of huffage, puffage or blowing down would provide a wolf with access. Woolf was forced to climb down the chimney. Unfortunately for him, Third was ready! He had set a cauldron of boiling water in the fireplace. No sooner had he dropped down into the house, than Woolf was boiled to death. Third, naturally for a greedy little piggy, couldn't resist easting the delicious canine stew."  
"Then where did Third disappear to?" I asked.  
"Simple, Watson! Having tasted canine meat, he was beguiled by its wonderful flavour. Where does one go when one wants to eat more dog meat?"  
But before I could make an obvious comment about Mrs Hudson's cooking, he answered the question himself: "The dog pound! I have just returned from Fauversham dog pound where Third was busy trying to adopt all the dogs."  
"Where is he now, then?"  
"When I tried to stop him, he turned wild. A dog-meat-frenzy was upon him and he tried to fry several small Chihuahuas. I was forced to remove his head and entrails. The kindly chef at this magnificent tavern dealt with rest and we are now eating him in the form of these delicious chops."

We all laughed as the scene faded to black and the credits began to roll.


End file.
